


Drink

by FeeFido



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Feeding Kink, M/M, Multi, Other, Porn With Plot, Vague watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeeFido/pseuds/FeeFido
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soundwave just wants to get his work done, but the cassettes in his charge have needs, and Soundwave is duty-bound to meet them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Hello! This is a weird kink-meme-thing that you should probably heed the tags for. Even though it's described as vague, there are elements in this that can definitely be seen as watersports (ie. sexual play involving bodily fluids of the non-sexual kind [piss]). The only reason it's described as 'vague' is because, in the cultural context of this fic, it's not urine.
> 
> From the meme:  
> "I want to see something like where the bigger the bot the more raw the energon they can eat and it gets processed to them and 'fed' to the next size down and so on and so forth until it's diluted enough to not damage the more delicate and smaller components of the next size rank below... And, well, I think you can guess where and how my brain wants the feeding to go..."
> 
> So, it's really fuel. Not sure if that makes a difference to any of you who may be squicked, but there ya go.
> 
> The plot starts happening in the next part so... enjoy?

The door behind him hisses open and closed, signaling that he is no longer alone in the surveillance room, but it isn't until he feels the sudden presence nudging against his right leg that Soundwave looks down from the security console he's stationed at.

Ravage merely peeks up at him for a moment before the black feline repeats the same motions, brushing fluidly along his leg before butting his head gently against him, nuzzling him with a near silent purr from his engine; quietly requesting what only the tape deck can give. Normally Soundwave would tell his cassette no, he has work to do– _Ravage_ has work to do–but he knows from experience that Ravage is the more even tempered, self controlled of all his cassettes. He wouldn't be here now if he didn't need this; if it wasn't hampering his ability to perform to his fullest for their Lord Megatron.

In all actuality, his processor reasons, it would be a great disservice to his Lord if he _didn't_ meet the small mech's silent request.

He disengages from the console a moment later, decision made. "Acknowledged."

Petting the cassette's head in acquiesce, Soundwave adjusts his stance above him, squaring his hips and shifting his legs a little further apart, and the panel between his thighs slowly retracts as he calls forth the protocol to feed. Ravage purrs, pressing back into the blue servo and watching with sharp optics as Soundwave abandons the console entirely now in order to reach between his legs, where his equipment has been opened and left exposed, delicate circuitry and all. Without any preamble, he grasps the bared cable jutting from his array and strokes himself over the awaiting mech, slow and firm, just enough so he can feel the flow of diluted energon beginning to rush to the bulbous silver tip, and not a second longer. Ravage is looking ravenous, watching his slow motions with hunger shining bright and uninhibited in his red optics, and Soundwave isn't so cruel to make him wait any longer, or risk to waste a single drop.

The second he removes his servo from the feline's head, Ravage is on him, raising up on his hind legs and bracing his paws on Soundwave's white thighs. The communications officer holds his cable steady, shuttering a quiet groan through his vents as Ravage leans in and nuzzles the tip, rough tongue lapping over him in thanks, before opening his maw and carefully taking the cable in. He slides in easy, smooth length running over the cassette's textured glossa and nudging the very edge of his intake, and Soundwave's vents heave a quiet sigh as he releases his cord, allowing the cassette further down until his muzzle hits his panel, and he's completely encased in Ravage's warm intake, oral lubricants already beginning to well up around his length.

His hands return to the console, fingers quickly typing to regain where he left off, as his cassette gently starts to suck.

The first drops of precious fuel quickly escape from his tip, and Ravage purrs around him, the vibrations hard and constant across his sensitive equipment, making his knees lock to avoid moving. The cassette doesn't take notice to his break in composure though. Instead, Ravage sucks a little harder, tongue lathing across the underside of the smooth segmented metal to encourage the flow, impatient and hungry for more sweet energy after his first taste; and, in seconds, there's a steady stream.

Soundwave keeps his focus on the console, alternating between monitoring surveillance across the ship and decoding Autobot transmissions as he slowly releases the contents of his tanks down the small intake, leaving his cassette to drink his fill. Occasionally, he'll reach down again, to pet and grasp the feline's head as he rocks shallowly into the wet suction around his most sensitive parts, but he doesn't talk or deviate further from the objective to fuel and nourish. The only noise being that of his rapid typing, and the wet sounds of Ravage eagerly swallowing around his cord; drinking him down, and mewling in pleasure as his own tank is slowly filled with Soundwave's processed fluids.

His cassette doesn't stop until the last dregs of fuel are sucked from his tanks and swallowed down, and Soundwave's cord can only twitch feebly in his jaws, overworked and sensitive, unable to produce any more.

The communication's officer grasps the base of his cord with a groan, holding himself still as Ravage slowly pulls off with a wet slurp and a last, flicking lick across the tip, leaving only his oral lubricants in his wake to drip across the floor.

As Soundwave carefully retracts his cable back into its housing, Ravage drops back down to all fours, full and happy and contently purring as he rubs against the tape deck in thanks. His eyes glow a stated and pacified red as Soundwave's panel snaps closed, and the officer gives his cassette a last affectionate rub behind his ears.

"Ravage: return to duties." Soundwave drones, and Ravage nods with a quiet growl of acknowledgment before bounding out the door the way he came with renewed vigor, returning to his surveillance, and leaving Soundwave to his own. 


	2. Chapter 2

Soundwave’s shift ends without any further interruptions for the Decepticon third in command. As is quickly becoming the norm for this unofficial ceasefire, there was nothing to report in his monitoring, not even aboard the ship, as most mechs stayed on their best behaviors when they knew it was the nefarious Soundwave at work behind the cameras; the immediate vicinity around the Nemesis held similar findings, with the only activity being the occasional aquatic lifeform swimming by to investigate and briefly prod at a camera, before being swiftly shocked away. Though status of surface activity will have to wait until Lazerbeak returns with his own report, Soundwave already assumes it will be the same quiet he’s so far observed across all channels. The Autobots had never before been the first to initiate any battles here on Earth, and he doesn't expect they'll deviate from that any time soon. Lazerbeak would have informed him immediately if otherwise were the case.

In the meantime, Soundwave turns his reports over to a seething Starscream, and resigns himself to continuing his analysis of the recently discovered Autobot frequency; the very same he’d been working on three hours ago when Ravage came to him for energon. Frustratingly, in all that time between then and now he hasn’t been able to decipher it beyond confirming that, yes, it is indeed Autobot in origin. But as far as the broadcaster, the recipient, and the contents of it, he’s yet to find any information. The frequency is heavily encrypted, even more so than what is usual of those Autobots, and in a manor he hasn’t seen before. Obviously whoever is behind these short transmissions doesn’t want any mech knowing what they’re broadcasting, especially if they’ve created a new method of encryption just to hide it; and the level they’ve gone to ensure this only makes Soundwave that much more determined to break it down.

He mentioned as much in the report he’d turned over to Starscream, and he fully plans on returning to his quarters and doing just that. When Soundwave has a clear objective in mind, especially one where he can show his prowess and superiority in his line of work, the communications officer throws himself wholly into it, dedicating spark and processor to his goal. Nothing short of an emergency or Megatron’s command will deter him.

As he nears his door though, a chittering sound echos down the empty corridor of the habitation sector, shrill but quiet, disrupted only by the muted beat of tiny wings. Soundwave glances back the way he came, catching the bright gleam of red optics in a blurr of purple and already knowing who it is he’ll see; his smallest winged cassette, erratically flapping its way toward him as it chirps and sounds for his attention.

Immediately, Soundwave stops before his door and opens his chest for the cassetticon to return to his compartment, assuming by the speed and desperation of his squeaks that Ratbat is in need of a recharge before deploying again; only for the tiny Decepticon to swoop down and land on his helm, leaving the tape deck’s chest yawning awkwardly open without an occupant to fill it, and Soundwave standing there, confused.

“ _Ratbat_ ,” he prompts, the slightest hint of an inquiring tone in his usually monotonous voice–a privilege reserved only for his cassettes, and especially Ratbat. As the youngest of his charges he is the most susceptible to lapses in his still developing and constantly updating processor and, at times, requires the guiding hand of a caretaker rather than a commander; certainly not a boss to whom he is employed. A certain inflection, a slight lilt in his vocalizer, and that is often all the cassetticon needs to draw his mind back into focus and right the lapse in his processor.

Except Ratbat doesn’t respond to his query, doesn’t even try to right himself. Instead he remains splayed out on his helm like a little mesh blanket and grips the points on his browplate with the hooks tipping his purple wings, his tiny motor humming as the cassette nuzzles the dark metal with quiet trills. Faintly, Soundwave can hear the sharp and quick intakes of Ratbat’s olfactory sensors sniffing the air and then sniffing him, being only muffled further as he presses his snubbed nose into his head and scents him for something. 

Apparently it meets his satisfaction, because his trills immediately increase in pitch.

Though the action itself can be interpreted as affectionate, the purpose behind it is much more self-serving, and any question at all as to Ratbat’s behavior are wiped away from Soundwave’s mind by the drag of a tiny pointed glossa across his helm. Quick and brief, the very same Ravage had done before taking Soundwave’s cable down his intake.

If he were a human, he may have sighed with exasperation at the unexpected turn his downshift is about to take. But not a tone escapes him, his field remaining neutral and his visor hardly even flashing, allowing nothing about him to outwardly portray his internal annoyance with the situation at hand. Just like with Ravage in the surveillance room, Soundwave contemplates sending the tiny winged cassette off to return to whatever duties he may have, or outright commanding Ratbat to return to his deck to be fed at a later time; thinking of that illusive transmission data waiting on his personal terminal, just begging to be decrypted and its secrets had, and how he’d much rather be seeing to that than sitting there unproductive for another extended period of time.

It’s a selfish thought to have. He could easily make that command, and Ratbat being his subordinate would be bound to follow his order, leaving Soundwave alone to his devices until he sees fit to eject him again. Simple as that.

But this is why he’s their boss, and not some other deck. Where others would–and have–taken advantage of the power imbalance, he’s capable of pushing those selfish wants aside in order to care for his charges; even if it means putting off the transmission until after he’s fed another cassette.

Soundwave checks the levels of his tanks. Ravage had effectively drained him earlier when he’d fed, but some time has passed since then, and the officer is satisfied to see some small amount of energon had processed and collected during that three hour intermission. Though not much, it would be plenty for the small cassetticon; at least enough to satisfy his frame’s need for energy.

With a hum of acknowledgment, Soundwave reaches up to run a single finger along Ratbat’s back, feeling the vibrations run up his servo as the bat hums in return. “Ratbat: will be refueled momentarily.”

As expected Ratbat chitters happily at the promise of fuel and continues to nuzzle and needlessly lick his helm, still attempting to entice him even as Soundwave closes his chest and enters the code for his room. The door opens, and the lights slowly power on to a dimmed level as his presence enters, and the door hisses closed again. Just like the rest of the ship, the interior is a dull purple, turned under-saturated and grey in the dim lighting, and furnished exactly the same as every other suite with a desk, chair, and sturdy berth pushed into opposite sides of the room; if only a little bigger to match his rank as third in command. The officer also has his own personal terminal, to which he moves to stand at immediately, despite Ratbat’s annoyed chirping and insistent tugging at his helm. He, like many others, knows how the tape deck gets when it comes to his work.

“Patience.” He commands sternly, and it’s enough to quiet the young cassette, long enough for Soundwave to power on the terminal and bring up the files he’d sent over from the surveillance room. Even though the transmission was short, only a small databurst comparative to that of a five second com link, the level of security and encryption on it made the size much bigger than a simple com link message. Some of the data and Soundwave’s progress had already downloaded, but it would still take some time for the transfer to finish.

It would seem Ratbat’s chosen an appropriate time after all.

Still passively stroking the cassette, Soundwave pulls out his chair and sits himself down in front of the terminal, the screen the brightest thing in the room displaying the slow progress of the transfer sitting stubbornly at 11%, and not looking like it would be moving any time soon. There’s not a thing he can do about it though to speed it along, so he leaves the download to continue and forces his processor elsewhere, to the other more pressing (literally, on his helm) task at hand.

As Soundwave leans back in his chair he can feel the heat of the bat’s hunger-bright optics honing in on his servo, following his hand as he shifts open his legs and reaches down between them to manually open the latches to his lower armor. So soon after feeding already, it had to be done this way, else he would just be bombarded by error messages and alerts of aborted protocols as the panel would refuse to open to his commands, unwilling to feed with such an empty tank before it could be given the chance collect more.

With a loud click and hiss though, the whole of his codpiece is detached from the rest of his armor and set aside on the desk to be reattached later, leaving his array once again exposed; cables and dark blue wires that normally wouldn’t be seen now on display, winding out and disappearing into the juncture of his thighs, and his silver cable limp between his legs without the call to feed to activate it.

Soundwave’s vents give a small huff at the inconvenience of yet another ‘malfunctioning’ piece refusing to cooperate, but there are ways around that as well.

“Ratbat: standby.” The cassetticon gives a disappointed chirp as Soundwave’s other hand stops petting between his wings and leaves him, but he stays put as commanded, and continues to watch his movements with rapt attention as the tape deck settles back and grasps his cable in a loose grip.

It’s not the same as being held in a warm intake, but Ratbat is far too small to give the stimulation himself, and so Soundwave is forced to mimic the motions on his own to the best of his ability. His palm sliding up and down the underside of his shaft, while the fingers of his other hand rub over the smooth tip, circling and squeezing rhythmically to simulate the suction of a feeding minicon, mouth eagerly working around his cable for that precious energon. He repeats these motions with a methodical ease, knowing the technique well after orns of doing the same for his cassettes either too small to do it on their own, or intakes non-compatible with his equipment; but it still isn’t easy.

He has to even out his ventilations, go into his processor and direct the inputs of information as they happen, trying to control his body’s functions even as it tries to take control of the situation itself.

It’s a poor imitation at best of the real thing, and his processor is at odds interpreting the contradicting information being sent through his neural net, unsure how to react to the strange, not-quiet sensation of being drawn from, and the opposing feel of his own hands on his cable doing the work. More than once Soundwave has to cancel the protocol for interface from rising to the forefront of his processor, and even has to cut off his vocalizer entirely to hide the inappropriate sounds from his subordinate as he tries to refrain from outright servicing himself under the bat’s watching optics. Now is not the time for that, and he isn’t about to allow himself to become distracted by such a baser, selfish drive while need in the presence of a hungry cassetticon.

Soundwave shutters his optics behind his visor and calls up a visual aid, sound files, something to set his processor in the right frame of mind. The wet, distinctive sound of suction, a small minicon with plain unmemorable features standing between his knees, mouth opened wide around his cord and the rim of his intake massaging the very tip of his length, just barely edging down his throat. Optics stare up at him, hunger-bright and lidded with concentration, silently asking, needing fuel, needing that which only Soundwave can give and relying on him to give it _now_.

As soon as the weak signature for feeding flashes up–tentative, almost unsure if this is even what it needs–he’s latching onto it.

If it were a physical, personified thing, it would have been comparable to dragging someone along, kicking and screaming, forcing the protocol to engage.

When it finally does, and his cable is rising to the appropriate pressure, he exvents a puff of warm air and strokes his cable with the same slow, firm attentions, until he can feel the minuscule flow of processed energon beginning to trickle into his feeding line.

“Ratbat: proceed.”

Ratbat’s already hopped down from his head in a flurry of fluttering wings before the order is even finished being issued, landing on his left thigh with a small squeal of a chirp and quickly shuffling up to get at his pressurized cable. The communication's officer opens his optics behind the visor to look down his chest, watching his cassette and forcing his hand to still as Ratbat raises up on his short stubby legs in order to grasp him in turn. The small hooked wings reach for his sensitized cable and delicately hold on, his tongue flicking out over the head and lapping up the first trickle of light pink fluid as it slowly beads up from his slit, only for more to quickly follow.

The officer shivers at the near teasing sensation, one servo holding the base of his cable steady and the other continuing to pump slowly along his shaft, as Ratbat finally leans forward to seal his small mouth over the slit at the tip of his cable, releasing a tiny contented noise as the small orifice is easily filled. He makes a firm, warm seal over it, contributing as much as he is able draw the diluted fuel forth, and rapidly licks and swallows as quick as each droplet forms, but ultimately it is Soundwave who does all the work with his hands.

But it’s easy now, the proper coding taking over as he silently watches Ratbat feed, and listens to his happy chirping between every other pass of his glossa; like being set on autopilot, and the sight in his lap a reinforcement. One of his fingers deftly curls out to stroke the cassette’s side in a soothing manner, and the small con is all too happy to lean into that touch as he glances up as his officer, small optics half-shuttered and dimly glowing, quickly becoming sated, no longer the blaze of hunger they were.

With the levels he had to work with and the vigor of Ratbat’s feeding, it doesn’t take long for his already low tank to reach its lowest yet.

Soundwave refrains from bucking, but he can’t completely push back the instinctual urge to move now that the protocol is in full effect, urging him to push deeper, sheath himself inside the feeding mech, and ensure every drop gets swallowed down and put to use. His hips rise slightly from his chair with each upward stroke of his hand, his rocking movements slow and even, making the tiny cassette bob on his cable with his restrained thrusts, but the tape deck is ever careful not to throw him off; even as Ratbat chitters and opens his mouth a little wider, oral lubricants welling up and dripping down his cable tinged with the pink of his processed fluids, as if he could actually take the whole thing.

The sight doesn’t fail to get to him though, and his hips give a small, feeble buck into that tiny intake, hitting that deft glossa that continues to flick and lav the head of his cable almost affectionately; and the last drops of his fluids are rushing out, spurting suddenly into the unprepared mouth with a surprised gasp.

As Ratbat jerks back with a startled squeak, Soundwave has to stop his hand to grip his armrest, biting his lips underneath his mask as he squeezes the metal and wills his hips to still; even as the cassetticon eagerly dives back over his cable to lick up the energon that didn’t quite make it, dripping down the twitching silver metal in thin, translucent pink lines to get lapped up one by one; doing his part to make sure he cleans it all.

His cable continues to twitch even after he’s regained his composure and Ratbat’s licked every trace of processed energon clean, well and entirely drained now, and the tiny cassette’s tank satisfied for the time being.

Ratbat quickly hops onto the desk as Soundwave shifts subtly in his chair in a silent request to move, jumping quick and flapping his wings to fly up and perch on the glowing terminal in order to give the officer his room to take his codpiece and deftly reattach it back into place. All previous protocols terminate once the protective covering slots over his cable and the latches are reengaged, leaving Soundwave to sit up once more in his chair and situate himself accordingly. It's still _sensitive_ though, and uncomfortable to sit there without bowing his knees open and relieve the pressure, but he bears through it.

When he goes to stroke the underside of Ratbat’s upturned chin, Soundwave chances a look at the transfer’s progress, now moved to 25%. Not optimal, but he should be able to at least look through some of the data now, and piece through the rest as it slowly comes in.

That is... if he isn’t interrupted again.

His processor groans at the thought and his cable gives a sympathetic throb. He’d really rather not be taken by surprise like that again, especially knowing he would have nothing to give now if approached, and _especially_ knowing he could now be working on this transmission instead.

“Query: Ratbat?”

The cassette’s sated optics shutter open and he squeaks a soft affirmation, letting the tape deck know he’s listening despite his dazed appearance, leaning wholly on to that one finger as it scritches his under plating. Soundwave doesn’t yet feel the need to stop.

“Are you aware of the status of other cassetticons’ energon levels?” The bat’s olfactory sensors were fine-tuned specifically for scenting out viable energy sources, sensitive enough to smell both the quality _and_  the quantity of the source he’s found, to the point where he could even detect the energy levels on any mech in his range. If he’s been around any of his cohorts in recent time, he should be able to tell just by their scent if they were low on energy, and would be able to tell Soundwave as such.

Unfortunately, it seems not to be the case. After a brief pause, optics looking distant and maybe not all there, Ratbat faintly flicks his wings and clicks in a negative. A long burst of binary quickly explains that he had other duties on the surface that he’d only just returned from before he’d quickly sought out the tape deck for fuel; he hadn’t run into Lazerbeak during his time on the surface, Ravage, Rumble and Frenzy were at work somewhere else on the ship, and Buzzsaw is assumed to be assisting them. He doesn’t know the statuses of any of their tanks.

Again, not optimal, but he can hardly be mad at the smallest cassette for only relaying all that he knew (which, granted, is nothing).

At least he knows Ravage has been taken care of.

As he removes his servo with a nod, Ratbat manages to get a last fleeting lick across the tip of his finger before straightening up as well, tiny glossa still licking across his mouth as he waits for the tape deck’s next words.

When he opens his deck this time and commands with a monotonous, “Ratbat: return. Function: recharge,” the cassette happily complies; hopping up and transforming to slot back into his proper place inside Soundwave’s compartment.

His pleased noises continue to vibrate inside him after he closes the deck, before his chitters eventually fall into silence, with only the muted hum of machinery echoing through the walls to fill the space of his room.

Alone (in a sense), Soundwave leans forward in his chair, elbows coming up to brace on the desk and his servos slotting together in front of his mask while his visor dims in thought. He starts to think on the known information, the cassettes that have come forth, the status of his own reserves, and begins to weigh his options. Most of them end abruptly in a conflict of interests and his optics moving back towards his terminal, only to be drawn back once more by a conflict which Soundwave cannot resolve without at least one other factor that could sway him either way.

He starts to calculate the likely hood that a third cassette might come running to him for more energon, how much energon he himself would have to go out and consume to prepare for them, and how much time that would leave him with.

But he only gets so far before his optics start to drift back to his terminal, at the monitor lighting up his concealed face with a proud little 27%, and the thin progress bar that seems to be growing faster by the second. A play on his anxious sights for sure, but...

What's the chance, really, of a third cassette needing him?

Soundwave unfolds his servos and sets them to the terminal's keys, opening up what little of the data he had to immediately start shifting through it.

His com link lights up his hud with a ping.

" _Soundwave!_ " The communications officer cringes internally at the shriek that assaults his audios. " _Come retrieve your_ pests _!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No guarantee the next chapter will be this long. But ehhh plot has started. Very minimal plot.
> 
> Mostly just Soundwave making hungry eyes at his terminal at the moment.
> 
> We'll see where it goes. lol

**Author's Note:**

> Also: if anyone would like to be my beta for the rest of this and read part two, if only to discus the plot I have in mind/characterization/etc, that would be lovely. ♥


End file.
